


two survivors and an ever-lonely road

by NIQtraust



Series: the ever-lonely road [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Head Injury, Injury, Injury Recovery, Love or Friendship?, M/M, Mutual Admiration, One-Sided Attraction, Or Is It?, Smidge of angst at the end, United under Nilfgaard, depending on how you read it, or more than a smidge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28433892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NIQtraust/pseuds/NIQtraust
Summary: The world is moving on. Nilfgaard has seized the lands up to the Pontar River, uniting that part of the world and eliminating the need for both the Scoia'tael and the Blue Stripes.An unfortunate encounter brings Roche to Iorveth's door.
Relationships: Iorveth & Vernon Roche, Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Series: the ever-lonely road [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082663
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	two survivors and an ever-lonely road

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Mould of the Auricle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20391091) by [softestpunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk). 



> First venture into writing these two, I can't promise my characterisation is on point.

Iorveth woke to the sound of dull thuds against his door, as if someone was tiredly beating their fist against it. Part of him was sorely tempted to roll over and return to sleep, but the remaining part warned him of the folly of doing so. If an elf was in need of help, he had to show, because no one else would.

The truce with Nilfgaard was still young. When the Black Ones had won the third Northern War, they had swallowed the Scoia'tael along with the Northern Realms. With that said, tensions among the former kingdoms and between the races were still high. A single misstep could be the spark that started a forest fire.

Another reason to stay indoors, Iorveth argued with himself. He didn't need to get caught up in any more trouble than he had to. Nilfgaard had tried to have him properly executed once, and once was enough.

The weak pounding continued. 

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as he waited for the noise to stop or move on. He didn't care which, so long as one happened.

There was a harder thud against his door, as if the knocker had fallen against it. He heard whoever it was slide down the wood to sit against his door. The elf scowled at the ceiling, which did nothing aside from making him feel worse.

After another moment of waiting, Iorveth sat up and wrapped his bandana back around his head, fingers going through the motion with the familiarity of his years. He no longer remembered how many years it had been since that bloede dh'oine had cost him his eye and his beauty. Aen Seidhe valued attractiveness, and Iorveth had lost any he might once have had.

A dh'oine had done that to him.

He could live with that. Had lived with that. He'd survived the loss of his eye and the damage to his pride. He'd survived the wars that had ravaged the Continent. He'd survived what was supposed to have been his death. He continued to live through the hatred his breed was forced to endure.

Because that was what he did. He lived and was made to watch the other elves around him fall.

But never him, no. That was his curse. Many dh'oine would have considered it a blessing, but to the elf, it was naught more than a plight.

There was a dull smack against his door, as if to remind him of the knocker's presence, then a good bit of shifting as the person stumbled to their feet. Iorveth doubted it was an elf. Few of his kind lived in the city and those that did knew of the other passages to gain entry to his living quarters.

But whoever it was, they were clearly determined, so he would answer. He had nothing better to do, besides sleep, and he clearly wasn’t allowed to go back to that.

His quarters consisted of a single room with a door. That door led to a short, straight staircase, which Iorveth descended, dropping him in front of the next door, which led outside onto the street.

Warily, Iorveth reached for the handle. One hand rested on the hilt of the knife he slept with. 

He opened the door to reveal an exhausted looking and all too familiar Blue Stripes Commander, who promptly collapsed into his arms. Iorveth caught him on instinct, though his rational mind would have allowed the dh'oine to fall against the hard stone of the floor.

"...didn't know where else to go..." Roche slurred, and that was when Iorveth really looked at him. In all of their years fighting, Roche had always been composed, if angry and slightly maniac. Seeing him so shattered, scared, even, was unnerving. Frowning, Iorveth dragged the man inside as the rain started to pick up, battering against the window once he had managed to force Roche up the stairs and into Iorveth's room.

He draped Roche across the bed and pulled a chair over, then looked down at the dh’oine before he took his seat. Roche blinked up at him.

“Why’d you help me,” he mumbled, fighting to keep his eyes open. Iorveth could see now that they were glazed over. He didn’t formulate an answer before Roche could no longer stay awake.

In truth, Iorveth didn’t know why he had chosen to help the dh’oine. He had no good reason to. Roche had killed countless of his Scoia’tael under Foltest’s orders, which was a paltry excuse. If Roche had thought the killings to be immoral, he shouldn’t have carried out the orders. The Aen Seidhe had wanted a place in the world that was their own. Nonhumans had just wanted equality. Iorveth didn’t see what was wrong with that.

But dh’oine had, and so the Scoia’tael had been formed, a broken and angry group that, deep down, no matter what he believed, he knew was never going to accomplish enough. The dh’oine held the power and possessed enough greed and abhorrence to wipe out entire races. What could a bunch of guerilla freedom fighters do against such hate?

But Roche had shown up on his doorstep, looking in need of help, and Iorveth had hesitated with the dh’oine in his arms. There was no need for him to help the dh’oine. Nilfgaard wanted the two of them to be civil. It had said nothing about sheltering the other if one was beaten up.

The best answer Iorveth could come up with was curiosity and… well, he was tired. Tired of fighting only to be stuck in the same place or a worse one. There was no need for him anymore. Vernon Roche was one of the few people who might understand that. The other elves had been angry at their defeat, but between the free state in the Pontar Valley under Saskia and Dol Blathanna, they had managed to find somewhere safe that offered conditions they could stand.

Meanwhile, Iorveth was a threat to be subdued. Practically a hostage. He had been the Aen Seidhe to unite the Scoia’tael, and as a result, Emperor Emyhr wanted him under watch. It was covered in a veil of civility - Iorveth was given lodgings in the city and expected to behave. But he made no mistake - he knew he was little more than a prisoner.

It almost made him want to laugh.

So many people had tried and failed to hold him hostage and bend him to their will, Roche included. But in the end, all it had taken was a place to live, a sword to his throat, and a promise of peace for him to bow his head before Emhyr.

The last of the real elves, he had been called once. One of the few remaining who was unsullied by both a human in his bloodline and from human rule.

No longer.

He wanted to weep, except he had long since forgotten how. Mourning was not something the Scoia'tael had had time to do. Surviving had meant arriving to fight quickly and melting away even faster. Sentiment and grief were not things that they'd had time for, no matter how much their hearts ached for each fallen elf.

There'd been too many of those, Iorveth reflected bitterly. And in the end, it had earned them little. It had been Nilfgaard and Saskia who’d delivered the elves any hope at peace and a place in the world, not the Scoia'tael. Not the freedom fighters.

He supposed that his commando had made a difference with Saskia, at Vergen. So there was that. But it was fuck all.

* * *

Roche wheezed as the booted foot caught his stomach next, air gone from his lungs before he could stop it. He grit his teeth and shoved himself into his side, propped up on one elbow with the other hand working to hold him up as well, fingers slipping against the mud. He'd just wanted a drink, dammit.

And instead, he was being beaten up in the rain-soaked alley two streets over, struggling to get his footing. It was like being a little boy all over again, before he'd learned the value of a knife in a fist fight, be it metaphorical or, more often, literal. He'd started to earn a name for himself then, despite being a scrappy kid with no father and a mother who had to whore herself out just to feed the two of them.

Then the other boys had brought their own knives to the next fight, and Roche had had nowhere to run and no one to run to. He learned the meanings of fear and strength in some back alley not too unlike this one. He still had the scars on his chin and one shoulder. His mother had never asked about the poorly hidden, and soon infected, cuts. Her eyes had been glassy most of the days he could remember spending with her. She'd been trapped in her own little world of the cloud illness brought. For three years, he'd watched her fight it, weakening to the point it was him bringing in the money and food, him stealing, and threatening the men who still wanted to use his mother's body.

Then she'd died, and he'd been a ten-year-old boy with no place in the world, with no mother and a missing father who wanted nothing to do with him. 

It had been King Foltest who'd saved him then. And ironically, it was Foltest who had condemned him now.

* * *

Roche hauled himself to his feet, ears ringing from the blow one of the thugs had gotten in. His head felt stuffed with cotton. Everything hurt, and dammit, he was  _ tired _ . Tired of fighting battles that went nowhere. Tired of watching Temeria being destabilized and then vanquished, folded into the great empire of Nilfgaard. The silver lilies were no longer hung.

More accurately, they had been hanged. Their supporters, anyways. Anyone suspected of being too patriotic, of leading riots or protests against Nilfgaard, was warned once, then dealt with. Peaceful protests were one thing. The law was more forgiving. Cold as he was, Emhyr was also highly intelligent. Painting the streets in Temerian or elven blood while the peace was still new would only guarantee more uprisings. 

The law was one thing. Sometimes, commoners would take it into their own hands and attack anyone they suspected of loyalty to anything that wasn't Nilfgaard. Roche had witnessed an Eternal Fire priest nearly be torn apart by a drunken mob before Nilfgaardian soldiers stepped in.

The rabble was being shut down, Roche knew, but it was a fine line between Nilfgaardian soldiers having a presence in order to guarantee peace, and people becoming afraid of and violent towards the law enforcement. That was when things got ugly. The Emperor would have to be an idiot not to know that as well, hence the slow pace.

Of course, none of that would do anything for Roche now. No one was coming for him, and he had no one to run to.

He was thrown down again, and this time he felt a couple of ribs give. Someone spat on him. 

"That'll teach him," one of the thugs said. He took a step closer, kicking the arm Roche had flung over his face in an attempt to protect himself and his head. He'd gotten a concussion anyways, when he had knocked against the wall. "Hey, you!"

"Enough, Rodrick," the thug Roche had surmised was the leader said, slapping the first man. "Patrol'll be coming soon, we gotta go." Another kick was aimed at Roche, bruising another rib or two. Then he heard the four thugs moving off, running before the Nilfgaardian patrol could pass the alley.

Roche finally allowed himself to groan, shoving himself halfway to sitting before the world spun violently and his nausea rose up. He stayed in that position, gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes while he waited for the worst of it to pass. He had lived through torture that was worse. He'd barely screamed.

He'd been caught off guard this time. That was his mistake. He'd allowed himself to believe that growing out his hair and beard, and a change of dress, something without a hint of blue, would be enough to protect him. The Blue Stripes had been disbanded, it was just him in Nilfgaard. Ves and the others were safe, far away either north of the Pontar in the remains of the Northern Realms, or in what had formerly been Temeria. Much as he would have liked to stay with them, he didn't begrudge any of them for leaving when they had been ordered to. It wasn't safe to stay behind, and tonight had allowed that to sink in. Emhyr had not been kind in his threats to the Blue Stripes about organising any activities against Nilfgaard. The Emperor himself had disbanded the commando. 

But Roche had still been well enough known that his face drew trouble, even without his chaperone and the lilies worn proudly on the badge upon his chest.

He still had the badge, wrapped in several layers of cloth and carefully hidden away in his tiny house. Nilfgaard, he had learned, had discovered that the best way to defeat an enemy was civilisation and comfort.

No one was coming for Roche. That much was clear. After another half an hour of slow movements and taking stock of his injuries, he had gotten to standing and was bracing one arm against the wall, bent at the blow so his forearm was against it.

Besides the ribs and the concussion, he had what was probably a sprained wrist, some bloody knuckles, a myriad of bruises that covered the length of his body, and a handful of cuts and slices. Everything fucking hurt, and he was angry with the world, but mostly with himself. Stupid of him to have gotten caught so off-guard. He'd truly begun to believe he was safe, which had sealed his fate.

Was this how Iorveth and other elves had lived all those years? Hoping they were finally safe, but knowing, deep down, that they never would be? Roche suddenly pitied the bastard. Iorveth had been forced into this bloody city as well, forced to submit to human rule and to watch his Scoia'tael get to go home while he was trapped.

Roche stumbled out of the alley, the change of lighting making him moan in pain before he bit off the sound. Iorveth lived nearby, didn't he? Roche hazily remembered Emhyr or one of his agents mentioning that the two of them were both in the city, and approximate locations of their housing.

And that was how Roche found himself falling against what he hoped was Iorveth's door, knocking with what little energy he had left and hoping the elf would bother to answer the door for a human in the middle of the night.

* * *

He woke, feeling marginally better, in a bed that wasn't his own. Someone was playing the fucking flute nearby, the melody familiar. It stopped when the player noticed he was awake.

"Finally," came a familiar, brash drawl. "It's been two days." Iorveth's face came into view, the elf frowning down at Roche. "You dh'oine really are so fragile." Roche shoved him away weakly, arm feeling heavy and disconnected from his body. He sat up much too quickly, throat dry and tight, and head not much better. Iorveth thrust a pitcher of water into his hands, which Roche drank gratefully. He was mindful to drink slowly, as he was more likely to keep it down if he did. 

He passed the pitcher back to Iorveth after he had drunk his fill. The elf placed it on what looked like a kitchen table. Roche realised he was staring after a couple of minutes.

"How long's it been?" He asked when he found himself able to speak. Iorveth didn’t even turn his head to look at him.

"Two days. I told you that." Roche grinned weakly and waved a hand towards his head.

"Concussion." Iorveth frowned again, looking oddly concerned. 

"Lie down," the elf ordered. Roche did so, eyes smarting from the light pouring in from the window. It was on the wall opposite the bed, and the side of the bed, not the head, was against this wall. But plenty of light was still reaching him, and it hurt. Roche grit his teeth and kept his eyes open.

Iorveth came over shortly, holding a jar and a mug. Roche could smell the strong scent of a herbal ointment. "Undress."

"What?"

"I said, undress." Iorveth looked annoyed, as if he couldn't understand why Roche was hesitating. He rolled his eye. "I can't reach your ribs and shoulder well with the shirts on and I figured you waking up naked in my bed was a good way to get me punched. Either strip yourself, or I'll do it." He slid the jar into a pocket and got up to put the mug back on the table, giving Roche a moment of privacy.

Roche's head was still taking a moment to catch up, and it wasn't entirely the concussion. Iorveth's bed. He was in Iorveth's bed. Of course he was, he silently chastised himself. There was nowhere else to sleep, no other bed, not even a sofa or armchair. There was a thick rug in front of an unused fireplace, but that was it. He swallowed, hard, suddenly remembering how the Blue Stripes had used to tease him over Iorveth being  _ his elf _ , and how the two of them were probably hate-fucking. The number of bets that had gone around the commando that concerned his and Iorveth's love life was higher than he would have liked it to be. The number should have been zero. Iorveth should have just been an enemy, someone to be taken entirely seriously and to be defeated. Roche had more than enough scars from all the times he had underestimated the elf.

But instead, he'd always let Iorveth go. Despite all the times they should have killed each other, they were both still alive. 

And now he was lying here, in Iorveth's bed, trying not to remember some of the acts the bets had mentioned. He could feel his ears burning.

Roche sat up, slowly this time. Hands with long, elegant fingers helped him, one resting on his back and the other his arm. Iorveth was surprisingly gentle.

He fumbled through unbuttoning the second layer he wore, since Iorveth had done the first while he was unconscious. Probably to try and tackle his torso, only to discover that the other pieces of clothing made it needlessly difficult. 

He shoved both the darker outer coat and the long, lighter shirt off. Iorveth whisked them away, laying them at the end of the bed. When Roche finally wrestled his shirt off, with Iorveth's help and cool fingers brushing against his stomach, he felt dizzy and tired, struggling for air in a way that he shouldn't have been. Iorveth grabbed his good shoulder when he tried to sway backwards onto the pillow and lie down again. Roche felt the bed shift as the elf got up to grab the mug, then took a seat. He hadn't been sitting earlier, but now he was seated on the bed as well, feet on the floor and torso facing Roche.

The mug was pressed into his hands. "Drink." Roche obeyed the command with hardly a second thought, sparing only the barest amount of energy to wonder if this was a trick and Iorveth meant to poison him. He drank the thing anyway.

It was like cold, thick tea, and it burned slightly going down. Roche drained the mug and wearily set it aside, limbs and eyelids feeling heavier than they had a moment earlier.

"What…" he tried.

"Painkillers and a light sedative," Iorveth said, anticipating the question. "It'll also help with the fever." Fever. Right. Roche had one. That wasn’t good.

"Why're you helping me?" He slurred out, forcing one eye to open so he could watch Iorveth's face. The elf's proud features told him little, but he thought he saw them soften slightly.

"Because," Iorveth drawled, "Vernon Roche is only allowed to die at my hand."

* * *

Somewhere in his feverish haze, Roche thought he heard humming. A male voice sang softly, filling his ears. The words were elven, but he didn't recognise them. The voice was familiar, too familiar. Not unpleasant to listen to, but the singer was clearly out of practice.

Roche sank into a dream of the elf who matched the voice, both of them tattered but still persisting even as the world wanted to batter them down.

* * *

Iorveth was watching the next time Roche woke, the memory of the feeling of the dh'oine's skin under his fingers still fresh. He sat on the window sill again, which was large enough to be a small window seat. No space to lie down, but he was able to sit comfortably if he bent his legs.

The dh'oine was far too trusting. Iorveth didn't know why Roche had sought him out, nor why he was helping him. Roche was the one he had never defeated. The one commander who had gotten away. Iorveth could have killed him in so many ways over the past three days, the act itself would have been unremarkable. But all of them had seemed unsporting, and it seemed unfair to kill the only person who might even begin to understand what he was going through with someone as plain as poison, or a knife between his ribs as he slept, a second head trauma, or letting the fever and infection run their course.

And they weren't enemies anymore. That, Iorveth supposed, was the crux of it. Despite whatever had happened between them before, there was no need for either of them in the modern world. They were two lonely people who had watched their men die as they each fought for a cause they believed in. Though, Iorveth privately wondered if it had been Foltest, and not the extermination of nonhumans, that Roche had believed in.

He was able to see now that he and Roche were actually rather similar people, if formerly on opposing sides. 

The dh'oine's groaning drew Iorveth's attention. The salve and the tea seemed to be working wonders. Roche's fever had broken shortly before dawn, after Iorveth had spent yet another restless night watching him, trying to keep him still so he wouldn't aggravate his injuries and to break the fever. 

The bruises that had been decorating Roche's body were faded as well. Some of the nastier ones had stuck around and would still be tender, but they had lessened. Iorveth had wrapped Roche's ribs and ankle as best he could with the dh'oine asleep and restless. 

"Iorveth," Roche said, voice stronger than it had been but still a far cry from what Iorveth was used to hearing, which was orders shouted to the other dh'oine that had made up the Blue Stripes commando. Iorveth wondered what had happened to them. "How long?"

"It's the next morning." He crossed over to the kitchen, wishing he had something a little more sustaining for Roche. As much as the dh'oine wouldn't feel like eating, he needed to if he ever wanted to heal. Or at least not die.

Iorveth settled on passing Roche a handful of nuts and dried fruit. To his credit, dh'oine began eating, his movements automatic, which shouldn't have been so surprising. Roche couldn't have been a stranger to illness and injury.

"Where've you been sleeping?" Roche voiced after another several minutes in silence, during which Iorveth got his own portion of nuts and fruit and sat on the bed beside Roche, who'd thrown his legs over the side and was now resting his feet on the floor. The elf gestured towards the rug. Roche didn't bother to hide the guilty expression on his face, though perhaps he was too tired to have bothered. Once, Iorveth might have prodded that and tried to provoke a response. Now...

"Why here?" Iorveth asked after another couple minutes of silence. "Why me?" Roche shrugged one shoulder.

"You were nearby. Probably a capable enough healer. And I trusted you'd not let anyone else kill me, if they came looking. Not until I'd recovered enough you could kill me and feel accomplished." He frowned at a piece of dried fruit, but ate it anyway.

"You have a lot of faith." Brown eyes studied him carefully.

"You've always stuck by the rules of our engagements before," Roche said finally. "Despite your crimes, you're a remarkable honourable elf." Iorveth could have taken offence at that, thanks to the clumsy phrasing, but instead he felt… something else. Not quite touched, exactly, but closer to that than anger. He must have been getting soft.

"I didn't believe you would kill me in cold blood," Roche continued. "And you were my only option. Might not have made it to my own home in a state I could have taken care of myself."

"None of your precious Blue Stripes around?" Roche gave him a confused look.

"They were sent away, like your Scoia'tael. Emperor didn't want them together or near me, and they all wanted to go home."

"Temeria's gone, and the Scoia’tael burned most of their villages." Roche snorted, then thought better of whatever he was going to say.

"Guess we're both the last of our kinds, then." Roche's voice was quieter than Iorveth had ever heard it. 

* * *

Two weeks after he'd shown up, bloodied and weak on Iorveth's doorstep, Roche found himself pacing the living space, bored out of his mind. Iorveth had insisted he stayed while he was still recovering. Roche didn't initially protest, not with the memory of the alley still so fresh in his mind, but now he was waiting for the day he could finally leave.

It wasn't that he disliked Iorveth. Now that they weren't actively trying to kill each other, the elf was a remarkable pleasant companion. He'd grown on Roche, too much.

Roche had always admired the elf. It was difficult not to, especially when he had such a firsthand experience with much of Iorveth's accomplishments. He was all too aware of the way Iorveth fought. He knew how the elf weaselled his men out of tight corners, how he could attack a caravan and melt away into the trees with immense speed.

How he had killed every other Special Forces commander, but he had always stayed his hand when it had come to Roche.

Logically, Roche knew that Iorveth's thought process was probably much like his own: they knew each other and knew how the other fought. If one of them was killed, someone new would take their place. Someone who might not be as merciful or as good a challenge.

Roche had devoted his life to the Blue Stripes. He’d at least wanted not to hate it.

* * *

When Iorveth stepped in the door three weeks after Roche had collapsed into his arms, the dh'oine was preparing to leave. He had dressed again, and tied his hair back at the base of his neck. He wore the same worn, brown clothing as he had when he'd arrived, only now the tears had been mended and the garments had been washed. He looked healthier, and not just in the way of his wounds being healed.

Iorveth made his way past Roche, depositing a loaf of bread and one of the rolls Roche liked so much on the table. 

The dh'oine cleared his throat after another minute. Iorveth heard Roche sliding the knife the elf had given him into its sheath.

"You're leaving," Iorveth said before Roche could get a word in. He turned around. "I lost an eye, the other still sees just fine." Roche nodded a little, then reached into a pocket and held out a small chunk of wood that looked like an attempt at carving had been made. A very poor attempt.

Iorveth took it anyways, examining the carving until he realized it was in the shape of an oak leaf.

"Wanted to do a squirrel tail," Roche said by way of explanation, "but the leaf turned out better." Iorveth raised an eyebrow.

"Then the squirrel tail must have truly been horrid, for this to have been better." He tucked the piece of wood away in a pocket all the same. 

"Least I could do after what you just did for me."

"Like I said. No one gets to kill you before I do." Roche took a step closer.

"You keep saying that," he mused, "but you've had me at your mercy several times and never struck the final blow. Never killed me, no matter how you talked big about it."

"And you haven't done the same?" Iorveth shot back as Roche walked closer.

"Better the enemy you know." Iorveth raised an eyebrow and took a step forward himself.

"You don’t believe I think the same?" Roche looked as if he was going to reply, then changed tact. His expression softened.

"I do," he said. "But I can't help but wonder if you have an ulterior motive." Iorveth didn't move, mind working to pull together an appropriate answer, because how did he say to the dh'oine he had considered his foe once that he didn't want Roche to walk out again? How did he say that he knew this moment was their one chance to be anything more than in limbo to each other? It didn't have to be romantic. Iorveth wasn't interested in Roche in that manner. The elf was too careful, too unsure. There were too many memories of violence and dead elves linked with Roche.

"I'm old, and tired, and sick to death of washing blood off my hands," Iorveth said eventually. "My people are gone, either to Dol Blathanna or to Vergen and the free Pontar Valley. I'm little more than a prisoner here. You're who's left." The

"There's no need for us anymore," Roche agreed, and when had they started standing so close to each other? The dh'oine reached up and touched Iorveth's unscarred cheek, tracing along it with his thumb. "We're all we have left." He paused. "Iorveth. Am I reading this wrong?"

"Only a little," Iorveth replied, and kissed Roche before the dh'oine could do it first. 

The kiss was one of a strange nature, like a struggle for dominance and something finally slotting into place all at one. Iorveth had one hand gripping Roche's head, fingers woven through hair that was now long enough for him to do so. Roche had one hand on Iorveth's upper arm, the other still lingering against his cheek.

The dh'oine drew back first, then claimed another kiss from the elf. Then he frowned.

"Iorveth. The hell did you mean, 'only a little?'"


End file.
